I lost my childhood at the age of 38. Or maybe it was a few years before then when I felt the small twinge of a snap from somewhere within my aging soul.
What started it all?
A walk. Nothing more. Nothing less. I tried to duplicate the same walk I took many years ago as a child. I tried to find the dirt roads that used to make my feet black and calloused from the hard, hot sand. I longed for a puddle to play in. One that would come all the way up to my knees and would allow me to submerge myself until I was soaked from head to toe. But, there were none to be found.
I ventured to the corner store. The one where I would walk in barefooted just to get a bottled pepsi. My grown feet walked in with shoes on and all the sodas come in plastic now. It's just not the same.
The nice lady, who worked behind the counter, who knew me by name, well she has since been long gone. Someone did something bad to her one night and she has since moved on to something else.
There are only two dirt roads that are familiar to me that still exist. The one I live on and the one that was named after the old barber shop that served clients Wednesday thru Saturday. It's closed down now. The barber shop that is.
Between the dirt roads was a trail that lead thru woods. It was a path that changed my life. A path that caused my heart to grow to grow up just a little faster than need be. That small path, now over grown with vines and shrubbery, represented another world to me. It was a path where possibilities were endless. This was where secrets were told. Dares were made. And kisses were exchanged.
He was older and taller than I. He represented the world to me. I fell in love with him in the only way a young girl can.
Dirt roads. Wooden paths. They are magical, aren't they? As time passed by, more kisses were kissed. More mischief was created. We stole a care with the drunken owner laid in the back seat unaware of what was going on.
I had my first drink on that dirt road. And my first joint.
When you're young you believe the foot prints you leave behind will always be there. As an adult you realize that memories are replaced by new ones. And sometimes they're not yours.
Thee dirt roads no longer know my foot prints. The path has long since said goodbye to the kisses that helped my learn to love.
And the boy, that beautiful golden haired boy, passed away before his time.
Friday, June 19, 2015
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
A Simple Prayer
His arms were big. Strong. They wrapped around her as they both laid in his bed. Their breathing synchronized in the dark room. The air was chilly outside of the covers, and as she snuggled closer into his bare chest, she could feel the protective armor of his arms tighten around her thin body. She had folded her arms into her chest, and her long legs laid tangled within his. Periodically, he would gently kiss her forehead. He'd rub his beard across the top of her head, signalling his need for her to know his affections for what they really were.
Honest. Love. Concern.
He whispered to her, hoping she could hear him over the silence between them. "Are you ok?"
She didn't respond. Confusion clouded her mind and her little hamster wheel that rotated inside her cluttered mind would not slow down long enough for her to decide whether or not she was.
All she knew, all she wanted, was him. His heat. His strength. She wanted to be him in that moment. The complexity of his life was tame compared to hers. She needed that. Craved it even.
She lifted her lips to the sweet spot on his neck that she so often sought out. Her tongue played across his skin. It tasted the sweet saltiness that was him. She could feel his body shiver while a sigh escaped his parted lips. She moved her mouth across his neck to his adams apple.
His hands.....palms large....fingers larger......squeezed the muscles of her back. She met his mouth, breathing heavy, panting under the excitement of her touch.
To him, her tongue was sweet inside his mouth. To her, his tongue was massive.....filling the confines of her mouth. They kissed for what seemed like hours. But was actually only a few minutes.
"Your mind is going a hundred miles a minute," he said to her after her finally broke free. "I can feel it."
She responded by pulling him on top of her. As she guided him inside, she whispered a small prayer somewhere within the back corners of her mind.
Please let me be ok one day. Please let me become independent one day. Let me take care of myself. If I must hurt. Then I will hurt. I will carry the pain like a badge of honor. Every sting, every stab of electricity that shoots thought me, every tear that falls will be endured quietly. And with grace. I won't complain. I won't wish for a different journey. An easier life. Just let me be ok. Let me become what I once was.......Independent.
When he finished, they both laid in a tangle or arms, legs, and sweat. He remained on top of her, forehead to forehead, hoping to absorb her thoughts. She allowed him to stay as close as he wanted.
When at last their breathing had slowed, and the magic of the moment began to subside, she spoke in a clear voice. A strong voice.
"No. I'm not ok."
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Three Days.
She stares intently at the pot on the stove. She can feel their eyes staring at her. The air hangs heavy with the questions her friends have gathered, but are too afraid, to ask. She hears the forced conversations going on behind her. The laughter that holds no happiness circles around as she silently stirs the contents of the pot. Her eyes, brown and dead, fixate on the wall as she raises her left hand to grab the yellow bowl that sits within the cabinet right above her head. Her mind registers nothing around her, nor does it pay any heed to her actions. Rather, it is her subconscious that had taken over. Intent in seeing her through her robotic movements of the day.
Least she forget to eat or bathe.
After she fills the bowl with the contents of the pot.......macaroni and cheese......a part of her mind kicks in and reminds her that this particular side dish is not a favorite of her's.
I know. She says to that back corner of her brain. But, I need it.
And she did need the orange noodles that had no flavor for her. She needed what the food represented. She needed the warm feelings of years gone by more than the calories or the nutrition. (If macaroni and cheese even had any nutritious value at all.) She held the warm yellow bowel, the sides faded and the edges shipped away from years of use, and that little corner of her mind took her back to a time when she was eight years old. Her mother, single and hard working, would fix the boxed food for her and her siblings two to three times a week. She remembered sitting at the oblong wooden table, surrounded by everything and everyone she knew, bathing in the warmth and the aroma of her meal. Her plate, more mac and cheese and less vegetables than her mother would have liked, sat in front of her younger self, almost forgotten as she absorbed the laughter around her. During those days, her only worries were winning at the pick-up kick ball games, dancing with her friends in the street to the newest Top 40 songs, or making it home to their tiny apartment at break neck speeds before the street lamps turned on, illuminating the way, thus signaling an end to the her day.
Oh, how she longed for that part of her life. She wanted it all back. The innocence of youth. The belief that it would all be ok just for the simple reason that it had always been. She wanted......needed......the simple arguments that she and her older sister always engaged in. The older girl wanted to watch soap operas; while she, still too young to understand the life of the adults on TV, fought to watch Tom and Jerry. She resisted the urge to call her brothers, one older and one younger, and ask them when was the last time they had gone outside just to play as adults.
She needed a simpler time. She needed it in the same way her heart needed the blood that carried oxygen to survive.
But, she wasn't going to get it. She was stuck in this life, carrying the memories she carried, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Suddenly her mac and cheese wasn't so appealing.
Oblivious to the change in the sounds surrounding her, she turned just in time to see the man she loved standing at the counter.
His eyes were brown. Like hers. She had memorized the tiny flecks of gold that played about his irises along time ago. His eye lashes were black and held the natural long curl that most women would kill for. There was no need to look away from his eyes to gauge the rest of his body. She had him memorized.
He was taller than her 5'8. She believed him to be at least 6'2, but she never cared to actually find out. His arms were thick and strong. Strong enough that when they engulfed her, she felt a sense of security that she'd never known anywhere else.
His hair, black and curly (when he didn't shave himself bald) was her second favorite thing about him. She wished he'd grow it out. Her fingers were dying to play within his locks.
But, his eyes. They searched her's as he stepped to her and gingerly tried to take her bowl of memories from her. She held on tight. Just as she was holding on to the yesterdays that contained the innocence and happiness she so desperately craved.
"Are you ok?" He asked. His voice was velvet. Sweet like the candy corn she would gobble up as a child on Halloween. Her mind took notice, for it was the only voice that could unlock her and make her spill the anguish she felt over the past few days.
"I mean," he stammered. "I....I....know you probably aren't. I mean, who would be?"
Who would be indeed? She looked about the kitchen for the first time that afternoon and saw all those around her.
She knew the small group of five had all assembled in her kitchen to keep an eye on her. They all knew the events of the past three days. And, although no on would say it, there was an underlying consensus that no one wanted to hear her speak the details. None of her friends had lived a life like hers. And no one could even say what they would do if they stood where she stood now. Each one of her friends held beautiful happy lives. They didn't want her ugliness in their heads.
They just didn't want to say it out loud.
Everyone, that was, except for him. He knew what it was like to have the evils of the world knock on your door and demand in. He knew the crushing blows of life; having experienced it so many times himself. That was probably why she loved him so.
"I'm hungry," was all she could muster.
"Good." He said. "You need to eat."
She was grateful to him for not challenging her dietary choices at the moment. In the past, he was known for trying to direct her to the nutritional area on the food grid. Of course she resisted.
"Do you want to sit down?" He asked. His eyes searching her's for any sign of life. Of a rational being that knew to sit down when she was eating.
"I......I don't know." The bowl of mac and cheese seemed to take on extra weight and felt heavy to her. Too heavy, in fact, to carry the long way to the table. Four or five steps to everyone else in the room, but to her, the journey to the eating table seemed to stretch longer.
The others in the room continued to stay put in their respective spots. They all swallowed against the lump in their throats, against the need to beg her not to let the dam she'd built against her mind break.
Heavy. Her hands and arms began to sway under the weight of the bowl. A burden crept up on her shoulders, laying on her like a warn out coat. Droplets of sweat formed on her forehead and on the back of her neck.
I'm going to pass out. She thought.
No you're not. Her mind informed her. But I am going to move the boulder. Let the dam break.
"No," she shouted out loud.
"Hey," he reached out to her. Fear clouded those beautiful brown eyes of his. "You ok? When's the last time you slept?"
"Three days ago," she informed the room.
I slept three days ago. She repeated it again silently to herself. She heard the gasps from some, while others shook their heads, knowing three days was a long time to keep your eyes open.
"You need to sleep. Or at least rest," a voice said from somewhere over there. She kept her eyes on his, least she dropped her bowl of the now cold noodles.
"I can't sleep," she told him as if he were the only one in the room. "I smell it every time I close my eyes. And I can't stand it."
He didn't have to tell her to explain. He gently removed the bowl from her hands and then stood there waiting for the inevitable.
"It's so heavy. I can't take it right now. Not when everything is so fresh." She never took her eyes away from his. Instead, she silently pleaded for some kind of understanding from the man she loved more than her own self. "You see, I can't deal with it. The gun powder mixed with her flesh. It's something unholy. Slow motion. I see it when I close my eyes. And you would think that the sight of the white wall splattered with her blood.......and.......oh God.......but that's not the worst thing. The smell is what gets me. What stays with me."
They stood there, locked in a gaze of fear and defeat, while the others stood to the side, held captive by the image she was creating. Her tears, held at bay for the past three days, slid down his cheeks. He could feel her despair, and no matter how strong he was, he knew it would be no time before his knees began to cave under her weight.
"But, you know," she continued, "I feel relief. So much relief. Her pain was so great. Her anger was justified. Strong. Her rage.....dear God in Heaven.....the way it moved about her. I sat on her couch and expected my own skin to burn from it. Do you know what it's like to have your own mother pull a gun on you?" She asked already knowing the answer. "Do you have any idea what it's like to have your very own mother, the one who gave birth to you, the very being who nursed and loved you, held you in the night, kissed you every morning, do you know what it's like for that person to train a gun on you? Do you?"
He was silent. They all were. None of them knew what it was like. They'd never experienced that sort of anger coming off of anyone they knew. And, deep down, she knew that. Yet, she also knew that, just like her mother, her pain and anguish were becoming too great just for her. She could hear those around her cry softly at her words.
Still, she kept his eyes, now shedding tears openly and freely, locked in her gaze.
"I don't know what to do with all of this. I hate her so much. But, at the same time, I understand why she did it. I know what she was feeling."
The silence, save for a few sniffles here and there, was more than she needed to allow her to look back, beyond the last three days, back into the dark part of her world. The images of a childhood filled with laughter and crisp summer nights were replaced with the more recent ones of her teenage years. The years that she'd tried so hard to forget.
Now everything was closing in around her. Her own anger and fears were mixing in with her mother's. She couldn't stand it. More than that, she couldn't bare the thought that she was once again alone in her own tragedy. Before her mother had taken the gun, before the woman who once cooked her macaroni and cheese more times a week than she probably should have, had decided to let go of everything and everyone, she had known what it felt like to be damaged. To see ghosts where only shadows stood.
Three days. For three days a conversation had taken place between mother and daughter that should have never been. Her mother had sat in the recliner facing the TV. Her reflection seemed alive even after the fatal shot had been fired.
"I'm empty now," her mother told her that first night she visited. "I'm empty of everything. I should've never opened that door. It's my fault."
She tried to reason with her mother. She tried her damnedest to explain what had taken years for even her to understand. That it was never the victims fault. Especially in situations where the only move the victim made was to open the front door. Her mother had been such a victim. When that ill fated knock had come, her mother had opened the door without hesitation. After all, there was never a reason for caution. Her mother had lived in the same area for close to twenty years without anything ever occurring. People.....strangers even.....had knocked before. There was no reason to believe this day would be any different than any other.
But, she was wrong. That day was different. It was as if evil, itself, knocked the three raps that brought her mother out of her recliner and into the door way.
She had no intention of telling the room full of people what that man had done to her mother. She felt she owed it to her to keep those conversations leading up to the gunshot a secret. Yet, the more she looked into the tear filled eyes of the man she loved, the more she felt the need to let the words spill out.
"He held her down," she told him. "It couldn't have been too difficult of a job to hold her flat on her back against her will. Momma wasn't in the best shape, ya know. She always wears.....I mean wore....this light cotton nightgown. Even during the day, she's have that gown on. I have no idea how she kept it so clean. But......"
He took a step towards her as she took a step back. They seemed engaged in a cha-cha of some kind. One wanting to touch the other. She could feel the dam loosening up and feared that his touch would be her ultimate undoing. Just as a precaution, she took two more steps away from him.
"She said he was there for hours. He took his time with her. I think her actual words were: 'You woulda thought we were fuckin lovers or something.' It took me a minute to process what she said. I don't think I'd ever heard her use the word 'fuck' before."
Her mind took her back to that living room with the sofa and recliner. She placed her hands on the counter and began to run them back and forth. In her mind's eye, she was caressing the rough fabric that was the couch.
"I can't stand to breathe," her mother continued. "I can't stand to feel my heart beat. I can hear it beating now. Right now. I hear the thump thump thump in my ears. It's driving me crazy. I'm an empty shell. I shouldn't have a heart beat. I shouldn't be breathing."
She had tried her best to soothe her mother's rage. She told her how she understood that empty feeling that came along with the violation that had occurred. She knew, in the deepest parts of the mind where only such things are known, what it was like to accept death right as life was being granted. She understood the struggle of living with something like that. She knew that her mother would never be the same. She knew because she was never the same after her own violation. After the moment she had looked Death in the face right as Life was saying hello once more.
"Momma, you'll get through this," she whispered. "We'll get you a therapist. Someone for you to talk to. You'll see. This won't beat you."
Three days and three nights of this continued back and forth. Her mother refused to eat. Refused to drink, bathe, or even nap. By the third day, both women were beyond exhausted. The mother's rage grew as the daughter's fears deepened.
"Why didn't he just fucking kill me?" Her mother screamed. "Why did he have to leave me like this? Half dead? The coward......that no good for nothing coward. Why didn't he finish what he started?"
She had no answers for her mother. These were questions she had asked her own self over and over again through out the years. She was no closer to an answer then as she was now.
"Momma, I know what you're going through." She said. "I've been through the same thing. I never told you. But, if I can get through it, you can too."
Her mother looked at her with dead eyes. "You got through it? Are you sure? You're nothing like you once were. I bet I can tell you what age it was that you were raped. I bet I can pinpoint the exact month.....if not the week. You ain't over it, you moron. You just buried it. You buried it and you keep it with you at all times. You're just too weak to face the truth like I am now."
The truth of her mother's words stung. She wrapped her arms around herself and began to cry. She made no sound and she closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. She figured she'd be of no use to her mother if they were both hysterical.
"I don't know how or even when she got the gun." She said to her silent audience. "All I know is that one minute I'm trying to get a hold of myself and the next I'm staring down a gun."
"Do you want to die?" Her mother asked her. Her mother sat there, in the recliner with that soft white cotton nightgown on, with the gun pointed at her face. Her mother looked her in the eye, never flinching, never showing any emotion.
The woman was, indeed, empty.
Her voice shook with each word as she explained that she wanted to live. She told her mother that death would not solve anything. That both women were strong enough to face the coming days together. They could get through this. They would.
But, it was all a lie. And she knew it even as she was speaking it.
Ever since that fateful night when she was fourteen and was left pleading and crying for help, she had wanted to die. She could remember, clearly, the days as they laid out in front of her as she tried to find some courage to take her own life. She had never wanted to live. For years she had sought out Death as if it were a cure to a mysterious disease that she possessed.
She never was able to do the job herself.
As she stared at her mom, the gun trained at her chest, she said a silent prayer. Please pull the trigger. Please don't leave me to live out my life like this. I do want to die. I know your pain....Your emptiness. Please. Please. Kill me.
Her mother nodded as if she heard her daughter's silent prayer. And in that instant, her heart beat raced in anticipation of receiving the sweet gift of Death that she had been longing for for years.
Please don't miss. Please don't let it hurt. She silently begged.
When the shot rang in her ears, she recoiled instinctively. She waited half a heart beat before opening her eyes to see what was left of her mother still sitting in the recliner.
The wall behind her now dead mother was a wash of blood and debris. Her dead body sat, slumped, like it had finally found the rest it had desired for so long.
She sat there waiting for her brain to accept what her eyes were showing her. She felt her own emptiness as she finally got up to walk over to grab the cordless phone that sat to her dead mother's right.
Quietly and calmly, she called the police.
Now back in the kitchen, surrounded by the ones who claim to love her the most, her body shook at the memory. She wasn't sure if she could voice her intent. She knew these people would try to stop her.
"I thought she was going to kill me." She exclaimed. "Do you understand?" He nodded to signify that he did. "But, she didn't. When she pulled that gun out, she made a promise to me. She promised me that she would take me with her. But, she lied. Don't you see that she lied?"
It finally dawned on him what she was saying. His eyes widened with the realization that the woman standing before him, the one he knew loved him just a little too much, had actually wanted to die.
And still did.
The words he felt she needed to hear escaped him. The others, standing there shocked as their own realizations hit them, gasped quietly. They looked at one another and then back at her. No one made a move to comfort the now openly hysterical woman.
She nodded her head, more to herself than to anyone else. And retreated from the kitchen. Macaroni and cheese forgotten.
The rest of the group remained in the kitchen. No one knew what to say or how to calm her down. And as the minutes began click by, each person began to imagine how they would've handled the past three days, had they been in her shoes. They wondered what all they did not know about their distraught friend.
Most of her friends that stood in the kitchen knew very little about her past. They knew she had experienced tragedy in her past, but they knew very little of the details. And they preferred it that way.
To say the gun shot stunned them all, is to put it mildly. They weren't simply shocked to hear the gun shot; they were confused as to where the noise had originated. Bewilderment colored each expression as they turned to one another to ask the silent question: Did you hear that?
He was the first and only one to run to her room. The howls of pain that floated down the hallway were enough to answer the question of whether or not she was dead. Each person stood still, trapped inside panic inside terror.
Time passed. No one could say how much, but they all knew it was passing them right by. Finally, he drifted down the hallway. Blood soaked clothes stuck to his skin. His hands, big enough to quiet the rage that had filled her days, were covered in her blood.
"We need to call the police," he told the room.
Least she forget to eat or bathe.
After she fills the bowl with the contents of the pot.......macaroni and cheese......a part of her mind kicks in and reminds her that this particular side dish is not a favorite of her's.
I know. She says to that back corner of her brain. But, I need it.
And she did need the orange noodles that had no flavor for her. She needed what the food represented. She needed the warm feelings of years gone by more than the calories or the nutrition. (If macaroni and cheese even had any nutritious value at all.) She held the warm yellow bowel, the sides faded and the edges shipped away from years of use, and that little corner of her mind took her back to a time when she was eight years old. Her mother, single and hard working, would fix the boxed food for her and her siblings two to three times a week. She remembered sitting at the oblong wooden table, surrounded by everything and everyone she knew, bathing in the warmth and the aroma of her meal. Her plate, more mac and cheese and less vegetables than her mother would have liked, sat in front of her younger self, almost forgotten as she absorbed the laughter around her. During those days, her only worries were winning at the pick-up kick ball games, dancing with her friends in the street to the newest Top 40 songs, or making it home to their tiny apartment at break neck speeds before the street lamps turned on, illuminating the way, thus signaling an end to the her day.
Oh, how she longed for that part of her life. She wanted it all back. The innocence of youth. The belief that it would all be ok just for the simple reason that it had always been. She wanted......needed......the simple arguments that she and her older sister always engaged in. The older girl wanted to watch soap operas; while she, still too young to understand the life of the adults on TV, fought to watch Tom and Jerry. She resisted the urge to call her brothers, one older and one younger, and ask them when was the last time they had gone outside just to play as adults.
She needed a simpler time. She needed it in the same way her heart needed the blood that carried oxygen to survive.
But, she wasn't going to get it. She was stuck in this life, carrying the memories she carried, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Suddenly her mac and cheese wasn't so appealing.
Oblivious to the change in the sounds surrounding her, she turned just in time to see the man she loved standing at the counter.
His eyes were brown. Like hers. She had memorized the tiny flecks of gold that played about his irises along time ago. His eye lashes were black and held the natural long curl that most women would kill for. There was no need to look away from his eyes to gauge the rest of his body. She had him memorized.
He was taller than her 5'8. She believed him to be at least 6'2, but she never cared to actually find out. His arms were thick and strong. Strong enough that when they engulfed her, she felt a sense of security that she'd never known anywhere else.
His hair, black and curly (when he didn't shave himself bald) was her second favorite thing about him. She wished he'd grow it out. Her fingers were dying to play within his locks.
But, his eyes. They searched her's as he stepped to her and gingerly tried to take her bowl of memories from her. She held on tight. Just as she was holding on to the yesterdays that contained the innocence and happiness she so desperately craved.
"Are you ok?" He asked. His voice was velvet. Sweet like the candy corn she would gobble up as a child on Halloween. Her mind took notice, for it was the only voice that could unlock her and make her spill the anguish she felt over the past few days.
"I mean," he stammered. "I....I....know you probably aren't. I mean, who would be?"
Who would be indeed? She looked about the kitchen for the first time that afternoon and saw all those around her.
She knew the small group of five had all assembled in her kitchen to keep an eye on her. They all knew the events of the past three days. And, although no on would say it, there was an underlying consensus that no one wanted to hear her speak the details. None of her friends had lived a life like hers. And no one could even say what they would do if they stood where she stood now. Each one of her friends held beautiful happy lives. They didn't want her ugliness in their heads.
They just didn't want to say it out loud.
Everyone, that was, except for him. He knew what it was like to have the evils of the world knock on your door and demand in. He knew the crushing blows of life; having experienced it so many times himself. That was probably why she loved him so.
"I'm hungry," was all she could muster.
"Good." He said. "You need to eat."
She was grateful to him for not challenging her dietary choices at the moment. In the past, he was known for trying to direct her to the nutritional area on the food grid. Of course she resisted.
"Do you want to sit down?" He asked. His eyes searching her's for any sign of life. Of a rational being that knew to sit down when she was eating.
"I......I don't know." The bowl of mac and cheese seemed to take on extra weight and felt heavy to her. Too heavy, in fact, to carry the long way to the table. Four or five steps to everyone else in the room, but to her, the journey to the eating table seemed to stretch longer.
The others in the room continued to stay put in their respective spots. They all swallowed against the lump in their throats, against the need to beg her not to let the dam she'd built against her mind break.
Heavy. Her hands and arms began to sway under the weight of the bowl. A burden crept up on her shoulders, laying on her like a warn out coat. Droplets of sweat formed on her forehead and on the back of her neck.
I'm going to pass out. She thought.
No you're not. Her mind informed her. But I am going to move the boulder. Let the dam break.
"No," she shouted out loud.
"Hey," he reached out to her. Fear clouded those beautiful brown eyes of his. "You ok? When's the last time you slept?"
"Three days ago," she informed the room.
I slept three days ago. She repeated it again silently to herself. She heard the gasps from some, while others shook their heads, knowing three days was a long time to keep your eyes open.
"You need to sleep. Or at least rest," a voice said from somewhere over there. She kept her eyes on his, least she dropped her bowl of the now cold noodles.
"I can't sleep," she told him as if he were the only one in the room. "I smell it every time I close my eyes. And I can't stand it."
He didn't have to tell her to explain. He gently removed the bowl from her hands and then stood there waiting for the inevitable.
"It's so heavy. I can't take it right now. Not when everything is so fresh." She never took her eyes away from his. Instead, she silently pleaded for some kind of understanding from the man she loved more than her own self. "You see, I can't deal with it. The gun powder mixed with her flesh. It's something unholy. Slow motion. I see it when I close my eyes. And you would think that the sight of the white wall splattered with her blood.......and.......oh God.......but that's not the worst thing. The smell is what gets me. What stays with me."
They stood there, locked in a gaze of fear and defeat, while the others stood to the side, held captive by the image she was creating. Her tears, held at bay for the past three days, slid down his cheeks. He could feel her despair, and no matter how strong he was, he knew it would be no time before his knees began to cave under her weight.
"But, you know," she continued, "I feel relief. So much relief. Her pain was so great. Her anger was justified. Strong. Her rage.....dear God in Heaven.....the way it moved about her. I sat on her couch and expected my own skin to burn from it. Do you know what it's like to have your own mother pull a gun on you?" She asked already knowing the answer. "Do you have any idea what it's like to have your very own mother, the one who gave birth to you, the very being who nursed and loved you, held you in the night, kissed you every morning, do you know what it's like for that person to train a gun on you? Do you?"
He was silent. They all were. None of them knew what it was like. They'd never experienced that sort of anger coming off of anyone they knew. And, deep down, she knew that. Yet, she also knew that, just like her mother, her pain and anguish were becoming too great just for her. She could hear those around her cry softly at her words.
Still, she kept his eyes, now shedding tears openly and freely, locked in her gaze.
"I don't know what to do with all of this. I hate her so much. But, at the same time, I understand why she did it. I know what she was feeling."
The silence, save for a few sniffles here and there, was more than she needed to allow her to look back, beyond the last three days, back into the dark part of her world. The images of a childhood filled with laughter and crisp summer nights were replaced with the more recent ones of her teenage years. The years that she'd tried so hard to forget.
Now everything was closing in around her. Her own anger and fears were mixing in with her mother's. She couldn't stand it. More than that, she couldn't bare the thought that she was once again alone in her own tragedy. Before her mother had taken the gun, before the woman who once cooked her macaroni and cheese more times a week than she probably should have, had decided to let go of everything and everyone, she had known what it felt like to be damaged. To see ghosts where only shadows stood.
Three days. For three days a conversation had taken place between mother and daughter that should have never been. Her mother had sat in the recliner facing the TV. Her reflection seemed alive even after the fatal shot had been fired.
"I'm empty now," her mother told her that first night she visited. "I'm empty of everything. I should've never opened that door. It's my fault."
She tried to reason with her mother. She tried her damnedest to explain what had taken years for even her to understand. That it was never the victims fault. Especially in situations where the only move the victim made was to open the front door. Her mother had been such a victim. When that ill fated knock had come, her mother had opened the door without hesitation. After all, there was never a reason for caution. Her mother had lived in the same area for close to twenty years without anything ever occurring. People.....strangers even.....had knocked before. There was no reason to believe this day would be any different than any other.
But, she was wrong. That day was different. It was as if evil, itself, knocked the three raps that brought her mother out of her recliner and into the door way.
She had no intention of telling the room full of people what that man had done to her mother. She felt she owed it to her to keep those conversations leading up to the gunshot a secret. Yet, the more she looked into the tear filled eyes of the man she loved, the more she felt the need to let the words spill out.
"He held her down," she told him. "It couldn't have been too difficult of a job to hold her flat on her back against her will. Momma wasn't in the best shape, ya know. She always wears.....I mean wore....this light cotton nightgown. Even during the day, she's have that gown on. I have no idea how she kept it so clean. But......"
He took a step towards her as she took a step back. They seemed engaged in a cha-cha of some kind. One wanting to touch the other. She could feel the dam loosening up and feared that his touch would be her ultimate undoing. Just as a precaution, she took two more steps away from him.
"She said he was there for hours. He took his time with her. I think her actual words were: 'You woulda thought we were fuckin lovers or something.' It took me a minute to process what she said. I don't think I'd ever heard her use the word 'fuck' before."
Her mind took her back to that living room with the sofa and recliner. She placed her hands on the counter and began to run them back and forth. In her mind's eye, she was caressing the rough fabric that was the couch.
"I can't stand to breathe," her mother continued. "I can't stand to feel my heart beat. I can hear it beating now. Right now. I hear the thump thump thump in my ears. It's driving me crazy. I'm an empty shell. I shouldn't have a heart beat. I shouldn't be breathing."
She had tried her best to soothe her mother's rage. She told her how she understood that empty feeling that came along with the violation that had occurred. She knew, in the deepest parts of the mind where only such things are known, what it was like to accept death right as life was being granted. She understood the struggle of living with something like that. She knew that her mother would never be the same. She knew because she was never the same after her own violation. After the moment she had looked Death in the face right as Life was saying hello once more.
"Momma, you'll get through this," she whispered. "We'll get you a therapist. Someone for you to talk to. You'll see. This won't beat you."
Three days and three nights of this continued back and forth. Her mother refused to eat. Refused to drink, bathe, or even nap. By the third day, both women were beyond exhausted. The mother's rage grew as the daughter's fears deepened.
"Why didn't he just fucking kill me?" Her mother screamed. "Why did he have to leave me like this? Half dead? The coward......that no good for nothing coward. Why didn't he finish what he started?"
She had no answers for her mother. These were questions she had asked her own self over and over again through out the years. She was no closer to an answer then as she was now.
"Momma, I know what you're going through." She said. "I've been through the same thing. I never told you. But, if I can get through it, you can too."
Her mother looked at her with dead eyes. "You got through it? Are you sure? You're nothing like you once were. I bet I can tell you what age it was that you were raped. I bet I can pinpoint the exact month.....if not the week. You ain't over it, you moron. You just buried it. You buried it and you keep it with you at all times. You're just too weak to face the truth like I am now."
The truth of her mother's words stung. She wrapped her arms around herself and began to cry. She made no sound and she closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. She figured she'd be of no use to her mother if they were both hysterical.
"I don't know how or even when she got the gun." She said to her silent audience. "All I know is that one minute I'm trying to get a hold of myself and the next I'm staring down a gun."
"Do you want to die?" Her mother asked her. Her mother sat there, in the recliner with that soft white cotton nightgown on, with the gun pointed at her face. Her mother looked her in the eye, never flinching, never showing any emotion.
The woman was, indeed, empty.
Her voice shook with each word as she explained that she wanted to live. She told her mother that death would not solve anything. That both women were strong enough to face the coming days together. They could get through this. They would.
But, it was all a lie. And she knew it even as she was speaking it.
Ever since that fateful night when she was fourteen and was left pleading and crying for help, she had wanted to die. She could remember, clearly, the days as they laid out in front of her as she tried to find some courage to take her own life. She had never wanted to live. For years she had sought out Death as if it were a cure to a mysterious disease that she possessed.
She never was able to do the job herself.
As she stared at her mom, the gun trained at her chest, she said a silent prayer. Please pull the trigger. Please don't leave me to live out my life like this. I do want to die. I know your pain....Your emptiness. Please. Please. Kill me.
Her mother nodded as if she heard her daughter's silent prayer. And in that instant, her heart beat raced in anticipation of receiving the sweet gift of Death that she had been longing for for years.
Please don't miss. Please don't let it hurt. She silently begged.
When the shot rang in her ears, she recoiled instinctively. She waited half a heart beat before opening her eyes to see what was left of her mother still sitting in the recliner.
The wall behind her now dead mother was a wash of blood and debris. Her dead body sat, slumped, like it had finally found the rest it had desired for so long.
She sat there waiting for her brain to accept what her eyes were showing her. She felt her own emptiness as she finally got up to walk over to grab the cordless phone that sat to her dead mother's right.
Quietly and calmly, she called the police.
Now back in the kitchen, surrounded by the ones who claim to love her the most, her body shook at the memory. She wasn't sure if she could voice her intent. She knew these people would try to stop her.
"I thought she was going to kill me." She exclaimed. "Do you understand?" He nodded to signify that he did. "But, she didn't. When she pulled that gun out, she made a promise to me. She promised me that she would take me with her. But, she lied. Don't you see that she lied?"
It finally dawned on him what she was saying. His eyes widened with the realization that the woman standing before him, the one he knew loved him just a little too much, had actually wanted to die.
And still did.
The words he felt she needed to hear escaped him. The others, standing there shocked as their own realizations hit them, gasped quietly. They looked at one another and then back at her. No one made a move to comfort the now openly hysterical woman.
She nodded her head, more to herself than to anyone else. And retreated from the kitchen. Macaroni and cheese forgotten.
The rest of the group remained in the kitchen. No one knew what to say or how to calm her down. And as the minutes began click by, each person began to imagine how they would've handled the past three days, had they been in her shoes. They wondered what all they did not know about their distraught friend.
Most of her friends that stood in the kitchen knew very little about her past. They knew she had experienced tragedy in her past, but they knew very little of the details. And they preferred it that way.
To say the gun shot stunned them all, is to put it mildly. They weren't simply shocked to hear the gun shot; they were confused as to where the noise had originated. Bewilderment colored each expression as they turned to one another to ask the silent question: Did you hear that?
He was the first and only one to run to her room. The howls of pain that floated down the hallway were enough to answer the question of whether or not she was dead. Each person stood still, trapped inside panic inside terror.
Time passed. No one could say how much, but they all knew it was passing them right by. Finally, he drifted down the hallway. Blood soaked clothes stuck to his skin. His hands, big enough to quiet the rage that had filled her days, were covered in her blood.
"We need to call the police," he told the room.
Friday, November 28, 2014
My Dearest Friend: What Dreams Flow Through
My Dearest Friend,
I don't really know how to start off this letter. I'm not sure how much time has passed since I received the phone call that told me you were no longer with me. With us, rather. I know I'm not the only one that loved you. That still loves you.
I wish I could recount my activities, minute by minute, for you so that you would know that I'm living my life to the fullest without you here. But, I was never one to lie to you. All, I can do is inform you of some of my activities. My memory is bad, as you well know. I am unable to recall it all.
It's Thanksgiving. Rather, yesterday was. I sat at the oval table that my Great-Grandmother once sat at, and listened to my family talk and laugh. I swam in the voices as they drug up old memories that I had long forgotten. It was almost like my sweet Granny was sitting there with us. And when it was time for me to leave, to take my children to their father's, a heavy sense of loneliness swept over me. I wanted so badly to call you. To tell you that my mind is still full of so much loss.
But, you're not there. All I can do is speak into the night and hope that there is a God above that can carry my tears to you.
I dreamed about you last night. The dream felt as real then as this computer feels to me now. I dreamed that you had not really died. That, instead, you had been carried off to some secret government mission. The mission had ended and you had come home to me. You greeted me, hugged me, then seated me on your lap as I recounted every misstep that I have taken since we last spoke. You listened and kissed my forehead as you used to do, and then offered up your own bit of wisdom. The dream seemed to go on forever. When I awoke, you of course, were not there. And it was like I had to process the grief all over again.
How many times do you have to die before I can accept that you're gone? How many tears must fall before I can carry your memory without feeling the weight of all that was lost on my shoulders? I miss you in the same manner that I would miss oxygen if I were to be deprived of it. And, I am almost ashamed to admit this out loud, I am so tired of missing you. I've lost people before. Why are you harder to shake than the others?
I know a lot of it has to do with my memory. How you can remember what I can not. But, that can't be all that it is. I love you so very much. I keep hoping that love with fade with time. Turn into something less harmful. If you were here, you would hold me and tell me that I need more time. But, I am too impatient. It's been two years at least. How much longer must I swim within your void?
I must go now. The pain has set in and it tends to control me at this point. Please know, hear, read, or whatever the spirit world allows you to do, that you were loved when you were alive.
And you are loved even more now.
As Always,
Wes
I don't really know how to start off this letter. I'm not sure how much time has passed since I received the phone call that told me you were no longer with me. With us, rather. I know I'm not the only one that loved you. That still loves you.
I wish I could recount my activities, minute by minute, for you so that you would know that I'm living my life to the fullest without you here. But, I was never one to lie to you. All, I can do is inform you of some of my activities. My memory is bad, as you well know. I am unable to recall it all.
It's Thanksgiving. Rather, yesterday was. I sat at the oval table that my Great-Grandmother once sat at, and listened to my family talk and laugh. I swam in the voices as they drug up old memories that I had long forgotten. It was almost like my sweet Granny was sitting there with us. And when it was time for me to leave, to take my children to their father's, a heavy sense of loneliness swept over me. I wanted so badly to call you. To tell you that my mind is still full of so much loss.
But, you're not there. All I can do is speak into the night and hope that there is a God above that can carry my tears to you.
I dreamed about you last night. The dream felt as real then as this computer feels to me now. I dreamed that you had not really died. That, instead, you had been carried off to some secret government mission. The mission had ended and you had come home to me. You greeted me, hugged me, then seated me on your lap as I recounted every misstep that I have taken since we last spoke. You listened and kissed my forehead as you used to do, and then offered up your own bit of wisdom. The dream seemed to go on forever. When I awoke, you of course, were not there. And it was like I had to process the grief all over again.
How many times do you have to die before I can accept that you're gone? How many tears must fall before I can carry your memory without feeling the weight of all that was lost on my shoulders? I miss you in the same manner that I would miss oxygen if I were to be deprived of it. And, I am almost ashamed to admit this out loud, I am so tired of missing you. I've lost people before. Why are you harder to shake than the others?
I know a lot of it has to do with my memory. How you can remember what I can not. But, that can't be all that it is. I love you so very much. I keep hoping that love with fade with time. Turn into something less harmful. If you were here, you would hold me and tell me that I need more time. But, I am too impatient. It's been two years at least. How much longer must I swim within your void?
I must go now. The pain has set in and it tends to control me at this point. Please know, hear, read, or whatever the spirit world allows you to do, that you were loved when you were alive.
And you are loved even more now.
As Always,
Wes
Sunday, May 18, 2014
For Mitch
At first he seemed alien to me. He was tall, pale under the lights of the church where I saw him most weeks, and he wore a baseball cap close to his eyes. To me, his whole demeanor was odd and a little off putting. I would nod at him as he came around to get the trash from the tables where the rest of sat and ate. My eyes, always scanning the room, would meet his gaze briefly before quickly looking away.
I'm too shy to say more than hello, I would defend myself to no one.
His walk was mechanical, purposeful as if his body had been held under stress of something far too long. I knew his story, sad and tragic as it was, just like everyone else did.
I don't want to intrude on his life, I'd say silently. Give him his space. He'll speak if he wants to.
But, he never did. A friendship never formed. We never had the chance to know each other through any type of good times.
It wasn't til later, when I heard his father's voice that I sought him out. I tucked my shyness away, and summoned courage that I really didn't have, so that I could approach him during the most intimate and devastating time of his life. I looked at the man, with the pal skin and long legs, as he lay in the hospital bed, and smiled. Introductions were made. Chit chat was exchanged. An instant friendship was formed.
It never occurred to me to ask if it were ok to intrude in on the last moments of his life. It did not cross my mind in the least that he may want to spend his last remaining months away from the prying eyes of an unknown girl who was just as odd as he was.
Our friendship was formed over silences and holding hands. Oh, how I long to have the moments back where I would lay my head on his chest, listening for the heart beat that spoke to me the bitter truth that lives in us all. That time is counted down from the moment we inhale our first breath. That tomorrow will never be promised. And that love, no matter how brief it is felt, should be cherished above all else.
Had I known then, as I watched him move about the people at the church, that he was not so different than me, I would've said more than just a casual hello. Had I known how much I would miss our talks, the laughter, the blessed silence that sealed our affections, I would've held him through the good times as well as the bad.
When he finally passed, I laid my head on his chest and heard our silence resonate throughout his body.
So, I'll file away our time together and tuck it back where I once had to place my shyness so we could speak. He's in a better place, I tell myself. Don't be selfish, I whisper into the night. It's been a year.
I'm too shy to say more than hello, I would defend myself to no one.
His walk was mechanical, purposeful as if his body had been held under stress of something far too long. I knew his story, sad and tragic as it was, just like everyone else did.
I don't want to intrude on his life, I'd say silently. Give him his space. He'll speak if he wants to.
But, he never did. A friendship never formed. We never had the chance to know each other through any type of good times.
It wasn't til later, when I heard his father's voice that I sought him out. I tucked my shyness away, and summoned courage that I really didn't have, so that I could approach him during the most intimate and devastating time of his life. I looked at the man, with the pal skin and long legs, as he lay in the hospital bed, and smiled. Introductions were made. Chit chat was exchanged. An instant friendship was formed.
It never occurred to me to ask if it were ok to intrude in on the last moments of his life. It did not cross my mind in the least that he may want to spend his last remaining months away from the prying eyes of an unknown girl who was just as odd as he was.
Our friendship was formed over silences and holding hands. Oh, how I long to have the moments back where I would lay my head on his chest, listening for the heart beat that spoke to me the bitter truth that lives in us all. That time is counted down from the moment we inhale our first breath. That tomorrow will never be promised. And that love, no matter how brief it is felt, should be cherished above all else.
Had I known then, as I watched him move about the people at the church, that he was not so different than me, I would've said more than just a casual hello. Had I known how much I would miss our talks, the laughter, the blessed silence that sealed our affections, I would've held him through the good times as well as the bad.
When he finally passed, I laid my head on his chest and heard our silence resonate throughout his body.
So, I'll file away our time together and tuck it back where I once had to place my shyness so we could speak. He's in a better place, I tell myself. Don't be selfish, I whisper into the night. It's been a year.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
My Dearest Friend: Me
My Dearest Friend,
I haven't written in so long. I feel almost guilty, like a thief returning to the scene of the crime, trying to return the priceless jewels before any one takes notice that they are missing. I feel guilty for the life I am leading as opposed to the life I should be living. I lay here at night, on this couch that does not belong to me, under a roof that will never be mine, being less than what I can be. I think of all the missed opportunities. All the unspoken "I love you's", not just between us, but between so many out there. I close my eyes and focus on the many stories floating through my mind, begging to be written down, struggling to be told, and I wonder why I refuse to share them. And then I feel guilty once more. For my life has before stagnate by my own hand.
I am not happy, My Sweet Friend. I look at my children, and I find evidence of God in their smiles. The Almighty speaks in their laughter. I try to tuck my sadness away from them, fearing that it may contaminate the innocence they are still cloaked in. I'm scared to hold them too tight. Look into their eyes too long, least they themselves get lost in the darkness that have enveloped my life.
I look down the road ahead of me. The decisions I will be facing in the upcoming months leave me tired and restless. I can not always live on some one's couch. I can not grow old under another person's roof. And while I've always known that I would face this delimia: how long to stay vs when to leave, it fills me with a heavy sorrow to know that when I move my children under my own roof, it will be a roof that I will grow old under alone. This realization is not new to me.
But, the emotions that accompany it are.
I've always been ok being with myself. Once upon a time, I looked forward to the days unfolding ahead of me, with just me and my thoughts. But, not anymore. I know that upon hearing the news of your death, a switch flipped inside my heart, a switch that made it possible for me to be content with just myself. I saw myself as an old widowed woman, having loved and never going to love again. Was I in love with you, My Dearest Friend? We were best friends. And aren't friends of that caliber in love with each other just the tiniest bit? Wasn't there something besides a shared traumatic past that kept us together? I know there was.
You held me like there was.
But, then you died. And a switch was flipped. And, now......well now, things have changed yet again. And I don't want them to.
I want my old self back. The one that was satisfied with the silence that surrounded her. The one who sought out solace in writing and photography. I don't know who this new woman is. This new woman who runs from anything creative. Who shys away from all people, known and unknown. This distrusting woman who longs for no one.
Well, that's not quite true. Even in death, I can not lie to you.
I fell in love once. I don't believe I've mentioned him in any of my previous letters. I only speak of him now because he is what has changed me.
And not for the better.
His voice is soft like velvet. Yet, it thunders when he speaks out of anger. He is cemented in his convictions and I can only dream of one day becoming as good a person as he is. At one point, this man seemed to occupy the majority of my thoughts. I wanted to share everything with him. I longed to open the dark shadowy corners of my imagination and let him crawl through the jagged spaces that very few have seen. But, he didn't trust me to take him there. And it left me feeling like the weird girl in the corner. Naked. Alone.
I still love him. I want to reach out and tell him that my heart is still open to him. But, I can not. I want gently remind him how short our days truly are. How tomorrow is not really full of promise. That it's all one big lie. Tomorrow is void of everything. It holds no purpose. There is nothing after today. When we open our eyes to the morning sun, we must grab onto every opportunity we have to love those around us. And allow ourselves to be loved by those who are willing. Because tomorrow is nothing.
You taught me that.
I need to climb out of this abyss. Start living again. Put the pictures in my head down on paper. Accept the fact that this is my life, and while my address will one day change, it will always be just me. I need to find a way to flip that switch back and lose myself in words again.
I need to find me......
As Always,
Wes
I haven't written in so long. I feel almost guilty, like a thief returning to the scene of the crime, trying to return the priceless jewels before any one takes notice that they are missing. I feel guilty for the life I am leading as opposed to the life I should be living. I lay here at night, on this couch that does not belong to me, under a roof that will never be mine, being less than what I can be. I think of all the missed opportunities. All the unspoken "I love you's", not just between us, but between so many out there. I close my eyes and focus on the many stories floating through my mind, begging to be written down, struggling to be told, and I wonder why I refuse to share them. And then I feel guilty once more. For my life has before stagnate by my own hand.
I am not happy, My Sweet Friend. I look at my children, and I find evidence of God in their smiles. The Almighty speaks in their laughter. I try to tuck my sadness away from them, fearing that it may contaminate the innocence they are still cloaked in. I'm scared to hold them too tight. Look into their eyes too long, least they themselves get lost in the darkness that have enveloped my life.
I look down the road ahead of me. The decisions I will be facing in the upcoming months leave me tired and restless. I can not always live on some one's couch. I can not grow old under another person's roof. And while I've always known that I would face this delimia: how long to stay vs when to leave, it fills me with a heavy sorrow to know that when I move my children under my own roof, it will be a roof that I will grow old under alone. This realization is not new to me.
But, the emotions that accompany it are.
I've always been ok being with myself. Once upon a time, I looked forward to the days unfolding ahead of me, with just me and my thoughts. But, not anymore. I know that upon hearing the news of your death, a switch flipped inside my heart, a switch that made it possible for me to be content with just myself. I saw myself as an old widowed woman, having loved and never going to love again. Was I in love with you, My Dearest Friend? We were best friends. And aren't friends of that caliber in love with each other just the tiniest bit? Wasn't there something besides a shared traumatic past that kept us together? I know there was.
You held me like there was.
But, then you died. And a switch was flipped. And, now......well now, things have changed yet again. And I don't want them to.
I want my old self back. The one that was satisfied with the silence that surrounded her. The one who sought out solace in writing and photography. I don't know who this new woman is. This new woman who runs from anything creative. Who shys away from all people, known and unknown. This distrusting woman who longs for no one.
Well, that's not quite true. Even in death, I can not lie to you.
I fell in love once. I don't believe I've mentioned him in any of my previous letters. I only speak of him now because he is what has changed me.
And not for the better.
His voice is soft like velvet. Yet, it thunders when he speaks out of anger. He is cemented in his convictions and I can only dream of one day becoming as good a person as he is. At one point, this man seemed to occupy the majority of my thoughts. I wanted to share everything with him. I longed to open the dark shadowy corners of my imagination and let him crawl through the jagged spaces that very few have seen. But, he didn't trust me to take him there. And it left me feeling like the weird girl in the corner. Naked. Alone.
I still love him. I want to reach out and tell him that my heart is still open to him. But, I can not. I want gently remind him how short our days truly are. How tomorrow is not really full of promise. That it's all one big lie. Tomorrow is void of everything. It holds no purpose. There is nothing after today. When we open our eyes to the morning sun, we must grab onto every opportunity we have to love those around us. And allow ourselves to be loved by those who are willing. Because tomorrow is nothing.
You taught me that.
I need to climb out of this abyss. Start living again. Put the pictures in my head down on paper. Accept the fact that this is my life, and while my address will one day change, it will always be just me. I need to find a way to flip that switch back and lose myself in words again.
I need to find me......
As Always,
Wes
Sunday, November 17, 2013
My Dearest Friend: Memory
My Dearest Friend,
How are you on this bright Sunday morning? How do you spend your time in Heaven? Are the streets lined with gold as the scriptures suggest? Or is your Heaven more tailored to you? I imagine the roads to be made of soft dirt, like the ones we spent our child hoods playing on. I can see you swinging on an old porch swing, all the while looking out on the horizon, planning your day. A little fishing, perhaps? A good book, maybe? I envision your heaven to be a subtle one, less glam than the one the good book refers to.
I thought about you the other night. I was jolted awake by a sharp pain somewhere in my torso. My mind, struggling to locate where my body was, found a noise tapping against the window. When I had fully awakened, I realized it was sleeting outside. Just the thought of the frigid temperatures made me shudder and I quickly pulled the covers around me tighter. Unable to fall back into a slumber, my mind conjured you up.
And that's when the loneliness and sadness set it.
I know that time is a silent thief. It takes memories and runs with them, never leaving a clue behind as to where it is going. Or where it's hiding them. Had I known in the years of our friendship that I was going to lose you like I did, I would have photographed you ever chance I got. I can not remember what you look like. My dreams of you, once vivid and in color, are now dull and gray. You are a shadow, a voice spoken offstage, that I can not see. How can a person who once met the world to someone become nothing more than less than a memory? And now that I can not remember you, it is like I am grieving all over again.
I can recall experiences with you. I remember how you held me at night, wrapping your arms around me, telling me that my hair was in your way and how you'd threaten to cut it while I slept. We would laugh, and when I tried to move away, you would only hold me tighter.
But, what color was your hair?
I remember standing at the bathroom sink, fresh from the shower, clothed in only a towel. My hair was dripping wet and I was just about to perform my daily hair routine. You stood in the doorway. Watching me. Studying me.
"You're beautiful Wes," you said.
How handsome were you? Did you turn heads when you walked into a room? I want to say you did. But, I can not recall exactly. My eyes are brown. Weren't yours......blue?
I don't know why this is so important to me. I can recall, without much effort, our many times together. So what if I can not say how big your cheeks were. I know you were tall. Taller than me. I know, because I remember looking up at you and shaking my fist in your face many times. I remember you throwing your head back and laughing at me.
You always laughed at me.
And I remember your laugh. Deep. Loud. It would start in your gut and rise up like lava bursting out of a volcano. It was musical. It startled me the first time I heard it. The first time you laughed at me, I felt how personal your laugh was and how you ought not share it with just anyone. I thought you to be too open. Too vulnerable with it. I wanted you to keep that laugh of yours hidden from others. Not everyone deserved to hear it. When I tried to explain this to you, you just laughed even harder.
"Look at the pot calling the kettle black," you'd say.
We spent hours on that subject, didn't we? Me being so open. Me wearing my heart on my sleeve. I try to cover it up. I try to be the stoic individual, but I get lost when I attempt to be who I'm not. My emotions tend to swim within me, they invade my mind, making the simplest task the most difficult. So, I let everything go. Free my mind of whatever it needs to be unburdened of. I speak and lay waste to the unsuspecting victim that is standing nearby. I pray they are strong enough to hear the words that I must speak. To shoulder the message that I must convey. A lot of times they aren't.
That might explain the reason I'm alone a lot.
But, I could always talk to you. No matter what was on my mind, I could say the words to you and you would hear them. You would digest the message with ease. But, more importantly, you would give me feedback. You knew that was what I craved. Feedback. Dialogue. Someone to keep my ball rolling.
I just wish I could remember what you looked like while doing it.
A funny thing has been occurring at work these past couple of weeks. My imagination has been cutting into my day job. It has been knocking on my mind's door and refusing to go away. Worse than a cop serving warrants, it knocks, then when I refuse to answer, it beats on my mind, until I drag out a sheet of paper and begin to write whatever it has to say. Sometimes it's just a couple of lines that seem to make up nothing. Other times it's a whole poem that speaks volumes of where I'm at in my life. My imagination seems to resent my day job and I can't blame it. I have been lazy when it comes to writing lately.
Lazy in my depression anyways.
I hate that I can't conjure you up like I used to. I'm sure that it's best that I can't. I'm sure there's a blessing hidden somewhere in all this mess of grieving. After all, it's been over a year. Surely, I should have let your soul rest by now. Surely, these letter should have stopped by now. Surely, I can say you're in a better place.
Surely.....
I miss you so much at times that I can not even speak. It is like my soul has stepped out of my body and wanders aimlessly. And how awful is it that it continues to search for you. I long to be whole again. To be able to rest. To feel complete and not out of sorts like I'm the only one that daydreams monsters into existence.
If only I could remember what you looked like. Maybe then I would feel a little better. A little more whole.
As always,
Wes
How are you on this bright Sunday morning? How do you spend your time in Heaven? Are the streets lined with gold as the scriptures suggest? Or is your Heaven more tailored to you? I imagine the roads to be made of soft dirt, like the ones we spent our child hoods playing on. I can see you swinging on an old porch swing, all the while looking out on the horizon, planning your day. A little fishing, perhaps? A good book, maybe? I envision your heaven to be a subtle one, less glam than the one the good book refers to.
I thought about you the other night. I was jolted awake by a sharp pain somewhere in my torso. My mind, struggling to locate where my body was, found a noise tapping against the window. When I had fully awakened, I realized it was sleeting outside. Just the thought of the frigid temperatures made me shudder and I quickly pulled the covers around me tighter. Unable to fall back into a slumber, my mind conjured you up.
And that's when the loneliness and sadness set it.
I know that time is a silent thief. It takes memories and runs with them, never leaving a clue behind as to where it is going. Or where it's hiding them. Had I known in the years of our friendship that I was going to lose you like I did, I would have photographed you ever chance I got. I can not remember what you look like. My dreams of you, once vivid and in color, are now dull and gray. You are a shadow, a voice spoken offstage, that I can not see. How can a person who once met the world to someone become nothing more than less than a memory? And now that I can not remember you, it is like I am grieving all over again.
I can recall experiences with you. I remember how you held me at night, wrapping your arms around me, telling me that my hair was in your way and how you'd threaten to cut it while I slept. We would laugh, and when I tried to move away, you would only hold me tighter.
But, what color was your hair?
I remember standing at the bathroom sink, fresh from the shower, clothed in only a towel. My hair was dripping wet and I was just about to perform my daily hair routine. You stood in the doorway. Watching me. Studying me.
"You're beautiful Wes," you said.
How handsome were you? Did you turn heads when you walked into a room? I want to say you did. But, I can not recall exactly. My eyes are brown. Weren't yours......blue?
I don't know why this is so important to me. I can recall, without much effort, our many times together. So what if I can not say how big your cheeks were. I know you were tall. Taller than me. I know, because I remember looking up at you and shaking my fist in your face many times. I remember you throwing your head back and laughing at me.
You always laughed at me.
And I remember your laugh. Deep. Loud. It would start in your gut and rise up like lava bursting out of a volcano. It was musical. It startled me the first time I heard it. The first time you laughed at me, I felt how personal your laugh was and how you ought not share it with just anyone. I thought you to be too open. Too vulnerable with it. I wanted you to keep that laugh of yours hidden from others. Not everyone deserved to hear it. When I tried to explain this to you, you just laughed even harder.
"Look at the pot calling the kettle black," you'd say.
We spent hours on that subject, didn't we? Me being so open. Me wearing my heart on my sleeve. I try to cover it up. I try to be the stoic individual, but I get lost when I attempt to be who I'm not. My emotions tend to swim within me, they invade my mind, making the simplest task the most difficult. So, I let everything go. Free my mind of whatever it needs to be unburdened of. I speak and lay waste to the unsuspecting victim that is standing nearby. I pray they are strong enough to hear the words that I must speak. To shoulder the message that I must convey. A lot of times they aren't.
That might explain the reason I'm alone a lot.
But, I could always talk to you. No matter what was on my mind, I could say the words to you and you would hear them. You would digest the message with ease. But, more importantly, you would give me feedback. You knew that was what I craved. Feedback. Dialogue. Someone to keep my ball rolling.
I just wish I could remember what you looked like while doing it.
A funny thing has been occurring at work these past couple of weeks. My imagination has been cutting into my day job. It has been knocking on my mind's door and refusing to go away. Worse than a cop serving warrants, it knocks, then when I refuse to answer, it beats on my mind, until I drag out a sheet of paper and begin to write whatever it has to say. Sometimes it's just a couple of lines that seem to make up nothing. Other times it's a whole poem that speaks volumes of where I'm at in my life. My imagination seems to resent my day job and I can't blame it. I have been lazy when it comes to writing lately.
Lazy in my depression anyways.
I hate that I can't conjure you up like I used to. I'm sure that it's best that I can't. I'm sure there's a blessing hidden somewhere in all this mess of grieving. After all, it's been over a year. Surely, I should have let your soul rest by now. Surely, these letter should have stopped by now. Surely, I can say you're in a better place.
Surely.....
I miss you so much at times that I can not even speak. It is like my soul has stepped out of my body and wanders aimlessly. And how awful is it that it continues to search for you. I long to be whole again. To be able to rest. To feel complete and not out of sorts like I'm the only one that daydreams monsters into existence.
If only I could remember what you looked like. Maybe then I would feel a little better. A little more whole.
As always,
Wes
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Nobody's Somebody
Ah, to be Nobody's Somebody
How delicious can it be?
To go here, there and everywhere-
With no arms to keep me still.
No kisses to touch my cheek.
No hands to hold my waist.
Just me with my thoughts
And my hair untouched
How glorious to be Nobody's Somebody it is!
I feel for the Somebody's Somebody
I really really do.
I'm sure if they had a moment to think
Well, they'd rather be a Nobody's Somebody too.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
My Dearest Friend: 5 am
My Dearest Friend,
Do you recall my night time routine? Please forgive my getting straight to the point on this letter. I have barely noticed my surroundings lately, nor have I encountered anything to make mention of. My daily routine is the same as always. Work. Children. Meals. Prayers. Listening to this one and that one. So, there's really nothing new to discuss there. It is the night time that holds my attention.
Or, rather, the hours right before dawn when the house rests under the weight of its occupants. This is when I can breathe. When I feel myself relax and let go of the turmoil that has begun to engulf my life.
It used to be that 3 am my eyes would pop open. Some unseen force, rather it's my subconscious telling me there are things to analyze, or it be Insomnia, Himself, bringing out my demons march in front of my line of sight, but something would always wake me up at this un-godly hour. I used to tell you that 3 am was my witching hour and it was then, and only then, that my imagination really came to life. The shadows that lived in the lived in the corners of my bedroom woke up alongside me, and together, we would travel down some fantastic roads.
Do you remember? Can you recall the odd hours we'd stay up to? And how I'd explain my dreams to you? There were times you were so silent that I'd wonder if you were still with me on my journey. But, you were. You always were. You never strayed. No matter where I took you, you trusted me enough to bring you back to yourself safe and sound.
Man, I miss that. I miss you.
That no longer occurs. I have chosen a painless night over my imagination. Each night, I take a tiny white pill that promises long hours of sleep with no pain. In return, I give up my journeys, my dancing shadows, the demons that frighten me and fuel my hellish stories of Insomnia. I feel like I've made a pact with the Devil. I would much rather be able to bare the lightning strikes that run from my abdomen down to my toes and call forth my imagination.
I want my 3 am and my long talks with God. My 3 am prayers. I just want my 3 am back.
Instead, I set my alarm clock for 5 am every morning. Monday thru Sunday, the morning hour of 5 sees me starting a pot coffee and cracking open the bible. At 5 am, I am studious, inquisitive, and intent. Most mornings, I am writing down a bible verse here and there that speaks to me or my situation. I write my thoughts on the verse. And, finally, I write my prayers.
I started this 5 am routine around the start of summer when I was told that I had fibromyalgia. While I had long suspected it, what I didn't anticipate were the medications and their hellish side effects and what they would do to my 3 am self.
When I tell people what I do at 5 am, they seem to look at me with much respect. What they don't realize is what I am doing. I'm trying to find my way back to my 3 am imagination. Strange. I know. But as strange as it sounds, I also know if I had tried to explain it to you, you would have nodded and immediately known what I was trying to say.
My imagination is where I see Him. Where I speak to Him. It's where He comforts me and He answers my questions. Without my 3 am connection, I have become lost.
Now, I read and pray like everyone else and try to establish a connection that I don't think I was ever meant to have.
This has all left me wishing and praying for one important thing. God, please give me a higher pain tolerance so that I may get off these little white pills. So that I may awaken at 3 am and go on these wonderful journeys. Or, better yet, so maybe, I can talk to you like I used to. Five am holds no magic for me. The house holds no mystery, no malice as it rests beneath its occupants. Shadows do not move in its corners. Night lights are not needed. Five am is nothing more than a morning like every other that I wake up at. I do not come alive like I did at 3 am.
My sweet friend, it's times like this that I miss you the most. I miss your understanding, not just of the situation, but of me as well. Perhaps, deep down, that is what I miss about you the most. Your understanding of me and all my quirks. I never realized it til now. How much I lack that in my life. Since you've left, I haven't had another you. While you, yourself, will never be replaced, I do hope to have another friend to understand me as you did.
I miss you, my Dear Friend, more than you can see from your spot in Heaven.
I must go now. Now that I sleep past my witching hour, my alarm is set for 5 am. And it comes awfully early.
Love You So Much,
Wes
Do you recall my night time routine? Please forgive my getting straight to the point on this letter. I have barely noticed my surroundings lately, nor have I encountered anything to make mention of. My daily routine is the same as always. Work. Children. Meals. Prayers. Listening to this one and that one. So, there's really nothing new to discuss there. It is the night time that holds my attention.
Or, rather, the hours right before dawn when the house rests under the weight of its occupants. This is when I can breathe. When I feel myself relax and let go of the turmoil that has begun to engulf my life.
It used to be that 3 am my eyes would pop open. Some unseen force, rather it's my subconscious telling me there are things to analyze, or it be Insomnia, Himself, bringing out my demons march in front of my line of sight, but something would always wake me up at this un-godly hour. I used to tell you that 3 am was my witching hour and it was then, and only then, that my imagination really came to life. The shadows that lived in the lived in the corners of my bedroom woke up alongside me, and together, we would travel down some fantastic roads.
Do you remember? Can you recall the odd hours we'd stay up to? And how I'd explain my dreams to you? There were times you were so silent that I'd wonder if you were still with me on my journey. But, you were. You always were. You never strayed. No matter where I took you, you trusted me enough to bring you back to yourself safe and sound.
Man, I miss that. I miss you.
That no longer occurs. I have chosen a painless night over my imagination. Each night, I take a tiny white pill that promises long hours of sleep with no pain. In return, I give up my journeys, my dancing shadows, the demons that frighten me and fuel my hellish stories of Insomnia. I feel like I've made a pact with the Devil. I would much rather be able to bare the lightning strikes that run from my abdomen down to my toes and call forth my imagination.
I want my 3 am and my long talks with God. My 3 am prayers. I just want my 3 am back.
Instead, I set my alarm clock for 5 am every morning. Monday thru Sunday, the morning hour of 5 sees me starting a pot coffee and cracking open the bible. At 5 am, I am studious, inquisitive, and intent. Most mornings, I am writing down a bible verse here and there that speaks to me or my situation. I write my thoughts on the verse. And, finally, I write my prayers.
I started this 5 am routine around the start of summer when I was told that I had fibromyalgia. While I had long suspected it, what I didn't anticipate were the medications and their hellish side effects and what they would do to my 3 am self.
When I tell people what I do at 5 am, they seem to look at me with much respect. What they don't realize is what I am doing. I'm trying to find my way back to my 3 am imagination. Strange. I know. But as strange as it sounds, I also know if I had tried to explain it to you, you would have nodded and immediately known what I was trying to say.
My imagination is where I see Him. Where I speak to Him. It's where He comforts me and He answers my questions. Without my 3 am connection, I have become lost.
Now, I read and pray like everyone else and try to establish a connection that I don't think I was ever meant to have.
This has all left me wishing and praying for one important thing. God, please give me a higher pain tolerance so that I may get off these little white pills. So that I may awaken at 3 am and go on these wonderful journeys. Or, better yet, so maybe, I can talk to you like I used to. Five am holds no magic for me. The house holds no mystery, no malice as it rests beneath its occupants. Shadows do not move in its corners. Night lights are not needed. Five am is nothing more than a morning like every other that I wake up at. I do not come alive like I did at 3 am.
My sweet friend, it's times like this that I miss you the most. I miss your understanding, not just of the situation, but of me as well. Perhaps, deep down, that is what I miss about you the most. Your understanding of me and all my quirks. I never realized it til now. How much I lack that in my life. Since you've left, I haven't had another you. While you, yourself, will never be replaced, I do hope to have another friend to understand me as you did.
I miss you, my Dear Friend, more than you can see from your spot in Heaven.
I must go now. Now that I sleep past my witching hour, my alarm is set for 5 am. And it comes awfully early.
Love You So Much,
Wes
Saturday, September 14, 2013
Restore Me
Restore Me oh Lord
To my future Self
Pass by my times of trials
And have Mercy on my wounded soul
Restore Me oh Lord
To what You will mold me into
I am nothing but clay in Your hands
But the process is so long and my skin oh so bruised
Restore Me oh Lord
Back to what I once was
Innocent of the world
Unknowing of You and the sins of my nature
Restore Me oh Lord
For I do not wish to see tomorrow
But it is the day after that most intrigues me
I have grown Weary on this journey
Restore Me oh Lord
I pray on fallen knees
Lift me and Carry me into the Future
And away from the trials of today
Restore Me oh Lord
To my future Self
Pass by my times of trials
And have Mercy on my wounded soul
Restore Me oh Lord
To what You will mold me into
I am nothing but clay in Your hands
But the process is so long and my skin oh so bruised
Restore Me oh Lord
Back to what I once was
Innocent of the world
Unknowing of You and the sins of my nature
Restore Me oh Lord
For I do not wish to see tomorrow
But it is the day after that most intrigues me
I have grown Weary on this journey
Restore Me oh Lord
I pray on fallen knees
Lift me and Carry me into the Future
And away from the trials of today
Restore Me oh Lord
Thursday, September 5, 2013
This Ramen Noodle Life
So, there you stand, caught in a decision that many overstressed, overworked, and underpaid have faced before. It's been one of those days where you were ready to commit murder with the business end of a water bottle just so you could go to prison and get some rest. That's right. You're actually viewing the big house as a place of solace. After all, you quietly surmise to yourself, there aren't any children demanding that their tiny needs are met there. Bill collectors, ever so persistent in their attempts to squeeze blood from your precious turnip, wouldn't dare call you why you're inhabiting a 10x10 cell.
Yes, prison, even with the ugly orange jumpsuits and the rank smells of some unknown odor, is starting to look more appealing than the day-to-day struggle of the life you're living now.
And it's ok that you briefly wanted to trade it all in for a cot and three squares a day. Don't judge yourself too harshly. We've all been there.
So, just stand there for a little bit. Bask in the cool air and inhale the different smells of the grocery store you're standing in. It's ok, really. Take your time Sweetheart. Pay no-nevermind to the little old lady as she pushes her buggy past you for the third time. Don't worry about the stock boy who keeps reaching around you to restock the shelves. There's no rush. Take all the time you need. And while you're busy taking what you need, feel free to take advantage of the precious moments you're getting to spend away from the kiddos.
Shhhh. It's ok. Don't feel guilty that a trip to the grocery store is like your own personal vacation. No one needs to know that you take a few extra minutes picking out the right kind of cereal for your precious cherubs. We all know, that by now, you've memorized their favorite foods. You could go shopping for them with your eyes closed. I know that extra time you spend debating between Captain Crunch and whatever other cardboard tasting sugary concoction someone has created is really extra time you relish in not hearing your name being called.
Really. I get it.
But, now here you stand making the biggest decision of your week. This could determine whether you have that nervous breakdown and start screaming at the ankle biters because you stepped on a lego, or if you simply melt into the sofa and let them destroy the rest of the house. I know you feel guilty. I can tell as you finger the last remaining ten dollars you have in your pocket. The rest of the items, the crap the kids wanted and you wouldn't touch if you were starving, can be bought with your foodstamp card. But, you still feel guilty.
Ahh, yes. Good o'le Uncle Sam and his judgemental cohorts at the Department of Social Services. If it weren't for these proud folks, you and your demon spawn would be living the high life eating ramen noodles and drinking kool aide. Generic kool aide for that matter. But, since you are considered to be the 'working poor', the government has thrown you a bone.
God bless America.
So, swallow back that guilt forming in your throat. Don't worry about the looks you're gonna get from the other shoppers or the cashiers. They don't understand your life and how stressful it is. You need this. You really don't want to lose it over a misplaced lego.
So, go ahead. Be that person. That foodstamp person that uses her foodstamps for food and her last remaining ten dollars on that delicious bottle of red wine you're reaching for now. Don't worry about judgement.
However, wait until the kids go to bed before you open it. And, for godsakes, use a glass.
Yes, prison, even with the ugly orange jumpsuits and the rank smells of some unknown odor, is starting to look more appealing than the day-to-day struggle of the life you're living now.
And it's ok that you briefly wanted to trade it all in for a cot and three squares a day. Don't judge yourself too harshly. We've all been there.
So, just stand there for a little bit. Bask in the cool air and inhale the different smells of the grocery store you're standing in. It's ok, really. Take your time Sweetheart. Pay no-nevermind to the little old lady as she pushes her buggy past you for the third time. Don't worry about the stock boy who keeps reaching around you to restock the shelves. There's no rush. Take all the time you need. And while you're busy taking what you need, feel free to take advantage of the precious moments you're getting to spend away from the kiddos.
Shhhh. It's ok. Don't feel guilty that a trip to the grocery store is like your own personal vacation. No one needs to know that you take a few extra minutes picking out the right kind of cereal for your precious cherubs. We all know, that by now, you've memorized their favorite foods. You could go shopping for them with your eyes closed. I know that extra time you spend debating between Captain Crunch and whatever other cardboard tasting sugary concoction someone has created is really extra time you relish in not hearing your name being called.
Really. I get it.
But, now here you stand making the biggest decision of your week. This could determine whether you have that nervous breakdown and start screaming at the ankle biters because you stepped on a lego, or if you simply melt into the sofa and let them destroy the rest of the house. I know you feel guilty. I can tell as you finger the last remaining ten dollars you have in your pocket. The rest of the items, the crap the kids wanted and you wouldn't touch if you were starving, can be bought with your foodstamp card. But, you still feel guilty.
Ahh, yes. Good o'le Uncle Sam and his judgemental cohorts at the Department of Social Services. If it weren't for these proud folks, you and your demon spawn would be living the high life eating ramen noodles and drinking kool aide. Generic kool aide for that matter. But, since you are considered to be the 'working poor', the government has thrown you a bone.
God bless America.
So, swallow back that guilt forming in your throat. Don't worry about the looks you're gonna get from the other shoppers or the cashiers. They don't understand your life and how stressful it is. You need this. You really don't want to lose it over a misplaced lego.
So, go ahead. Be that person. That foodstamp person that uses her foodstamps for food and her last remaining ten dollars on that delicious bottle of red wine you're reaching for now. Don't worry about judgement.
However, wait until the kids go to bed before you open it. And, for godsakes, use a glass.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
My Dearest Friend: Starting Over
My Dearest Friend,
The seasons are changing and ushering in the start of a new school year. The kids are excited for this school year they start in a new home with friends they've known all their lives. These friends they now look upon as brothers and sisters. My children are happy with the turn their lives have taken.
I am a little less than thrilled. But, I am thankful.
The house that I was renting got sold. Frustrated and unable to find anything else affordable, I moved in with a childhood friend of mine. There are now seven of us sharing a three bedroom house. four children and three adults. Once again I am faced with starting over. Once again I am looking at a road stretched out in front of me and I wondering if I am strong enough to walk it alone with the two little ones that I must support.
Once again I am damning my poor life choices.
My thoughts I keep going back to writing. The more stressed I get, the more I want to bury my head in my imagination. After all, that is where you live. Where I hear your laughter. Where your touch still caresses my hair. In my imagination I face impossible odds everyday, and I defeat monsters more hideous than anyone could ever imagine. I write because I feel that it is all I have in this world. I hold on to my writing because in this world full of heartbreak and nonsense, it is the one thing that does make sense to me.
God, in all His mystery, demands that I rely on Him through faith. My writing demands nothing more than for me to take its hand and let it lead me on a wondrous journey.
My sweet, long, missed friend, how I wish you were by my side. I do not miss your council. I do not long for our talks into the early dark hours of morning. No, it is none of that. I simply wish to be able to lay my head on your chest. In the night, when the pain rips through my body and I can not roll over, I pray out that you can hear my cry. I pray that you are in Heaven and you can send a sweet kiss down to me to soften my fears here on Earth. Your mere presence is all I long for now. My body aches for yours in the same way that a child yearns for the safety of his favorite blanket.
I am lucky though. Lucky that I am so loved that people have allowed me to live with them. Lucky that others were willing to help me move my belongings at a moments notice. I am loved. I have often said that for all the wrong I have done in my life, I must have done something right.
For I am loved.
I must go now. Dinner is cooking and the children are getting restless. Their laughter is a different kind of medicine that my soul feeds on. When I close my eyes tonight, I pray that I see your smile in my dreams.
As always,
Me
The seasons are changing and ushering in the start of a new school year. The kids are excited for this school year they start in a new home with friends they've known all their lives. These friends they now look upon as brothers and sisters. My children are happy with the turn their lives have taken.
I am a little less than thrilled. But, I am thankful.
The house that I was renting got sold. Frustrated and unable to find anything else affordable, I moved in with a childhood friend of mine. There are now seven of us sharing a three bedroom house. four children and three adults. Once again I am faced with starting over. Once again I am looking at a road stretched out in front of me and I wondering if I am strong enough to walk it alone with the two little ones that I must support.
Once again I am damning my poor life choices.
My thoughts I keep going back to writing. The more stressed I get, the more I want to bury my head in my imagination. After all, that is where you live. Where I hear your laughter. Where your touch still caresses my hair. In my imagination I face impossible odds everyday, and I defeat monsters more hideous than anyone could ever imagine. I write because I feel that it is all I have in this world. I hold on to my writing because in this world full of heartbreak and nonsense, it is the one thing that does make sense to me.
God, in all His mystery, demands that I rely on Him through faith. My writing demands nothing more than for me to take its hand and let it lead me on a wondrous journey.
My sweet, long, missed friend, how I wish you were by my side. I do not miss your council. I do not long for our talks into the early dark hours of morning. No, it is none of that. I simply wish to be able to lay my head on your chest. In the night, when the pain rips through my body and I can not roll over, I pray out that you can hear my cry. I pray that you are in Heaven and you can send a sweet kiss down to me to soften my fears here on Earth. Your mere presence is all I long for now. My body aches for yours in the same way that a child yearns for the safety of his favorite blanket.
I am lucky though. Lucky that I am so loved that people have allowed me to live with them. Lucky that others were willing to help me move my belongings at a moments notice. I am loved. I have often said that for all the wrong I have done in my life, I must have done something right.
For I am loved.
I must go now. Dinner is cooking and the children are getting restless. Their laughter is a different kind of medicine that my soul feeds on. When I close my eyes tonight, I pray that I see your smile in my dreams.
As always,
Me
Monday, September 2, 2013
Friday, August 9, 2013
The Darkness
I have to write fast, you see. Time, never one to stand still, or obey the desires of the needy and hubris, races on against my will. I feel raped of goodness and want nothing more than to wrap myself up in blankets and the clothing that has been stripped off of me.
But, none of that matters. I don't have to analyze any of it. I have to write. I have something to say. A last testament, if you will. I sit at the hard wooden desk with my back dripping beads of perspiration. My hair stuck to my shoulders, neck and back, with a plaster made of my own sweat mixed with blood.
The blood is foreign to me. My naked body, shivering in the heat, and long stripped of of its protected clothing, is void of any gashes that would allow blood to seep from it. The dark red body fluid that I wear is of the two dead bodies that call the dirty hotel room floor home. The blood has hardened on my light brown skin and provide a protective shell against the heat of the night. The sweat that slithers along this covering could not even penetrate it.
"Write faster," he tells me; nudging the back of my skull with the barrel of his gun.
"I am." I tell him. My adversary is shaking.
My quick response to his, and his cohorts, planned attack was not what he had expected. All thee men; tall, muscular, and heavy handed as they proved when they grabbed me, figured they could have their way with me. I'm sure they had anticipated some sort of resistance on my part. I think, deep down where secrets are buried and inner voices are heard, they looked forward to it. What they didn't bargain for
what they had no way of knowing
was that inside my petite frame resided a darkness, that when unleashed, reviled Hell's deepest pit.
They never got the chance to rape me. Pinning me down, one man keeping my arms held in under his weight, while the other two busied themselves removing my clothes.
There were tears of course. As I write these words I find them to be useless. They don't convey the horror of the moment. The terror that he is experiencing right now as I feel the gun tremble against my bloody head.
"What the fuck are you writing?" He whispers. Spittle forms around his mouth. His eyes, once blackened by the sheer harm he intended me are now a light brown and bulging from their sockets.
The sight of the gun, held intently in his hand, was such a surprise moments earlier, that I had paused in my retaliation. The pause
that split second of humanity that had shown through the blackness
was enough to cause something within me to be still once more. That stillness was what gave him his edge.
I have to bring back that darkness in me. The evil that lurks down below. I have to capture it all so I can finish what I started.
My failure to answer his question does not cause my enemy to pull the trigger. He is in too much shock to end my life. He stands behind my blood drenched body
with his sweat soaked striped shirt and piss stained brown pants
with a morbid curiosity that I'm betting he's never experienced.
As his weight began to cut the circulation in my arms, the other two monsters were preparing their decent into my world. The darker one, with numerous prison tattoos and long blond hair, pushed my legs open. He laughed, even high fiving the blond, pale skinned man that sat at my rib cage. He wore only his socks and shirt. His small erection told me he was ready to meet me next.
Poor foolish bastards. Men, with their straight spines, large hands, and alpha thoughts, they always think they are stronger than their opposite gender. How wrong these imbeciles are.
How deadly wrong.
I felt his heat before he entered me. I know this now. I am also sure of the knowledge that it is this heat
the fire if you will
that diminished the light within me. That brought about my darkness.
"This isn't going to happen." I told him. And before he could laugh and mock my stupidity, I began to eat him.
Quickly.
I targeted the jugular. As my mouth quickly filled up with the bitterness of his life, I reached over with my left hand and tore his partner's jaw completely off.
I can not tell when the man with the gun leaped off of my arms.
Blood. It is an unusual substance. I have found in my past adventures that the taste has often reflected the owner's soul. These men
monsters
were rabid at heart. Their darkness contained demons that seemed to have escaped from the darkest corners of Hell.
The second monster's body began to seize as I ripped open his throat. His blood was rancid. It burned as my saliva mixed with it and carried the fluid to the acidic home of my stomach. I could feel it churn as it made its way through my digestive system. I almost vomited back up.
Almost.
"Stop," the man had screamed. My head, snapping to look in his direction so quickly that my neck bones cracked, held a smile that appeared to frighten him more than the carnage that lay out before his eyes.
"Uh....stop." He whispered.
I stood up slowly, all the while swallowing back the rest of the life I had drained.
"So," I said. "Are you next?"
"Fuck you. You're going to fucking die, you fucking whatever-the-fuck-you-are."
"I have to write first," I told him. "I have to tell my story. When I'm done, then you can put a bullet through my head if you still want to."
He eyeballed me suspiciously as I reached behind me into the desk, that I'm now sitting at, to pull out a pen and stationary. Forever the wanna-be monster, his eyes took in my small breasts. He looked hungrily at my sex, and then snapped back to the reality of the present.
"Hurry up."
I smiled and began to write.
I was normal once. As I sit here, bathed in someone else's blood and angry over the events that brought me to this moment, I have to remember that I was once normal. Of course it wasn't these men that caused the darkness to form initially. No, they just turned off the light. Not, it had happened a long time ago.
One day I walked this world normal. Then one night I broke. Simple. In a moment's time, I fell apart. And I was never the same.
He's telling me to write faster. He is in a hurry to end my life. I do not know the time. There are no windows in this room. How did I find myself in an old roach ridden hotel room with three strangers? Easy. I was searching for pills. Pills that would forever keep me walking in darkness.
I know they planned this. There is no guessing to it. As I write these words, retracing my steps of placing the phone call that lead to the dealer, who gave me the directions to this run down hotel room, I see that they've done this to countless women before. Of course, admittedly, none of that crossed my mind as I returned the brutality. Now, though, I can even hear their past victims screams. They echo off my skin, having been released from the monsters spilled blood that I wear. I hope my words calm them like a lullaby soothes a disgruntled infant.
The man's
my wanna-be monster
curiosity has turned to impatience. He has yet to say it, but I know he will soon inform me that my time is up and he will expect me to make good on my promise. What he has yet to realize
and what I can not figure out
is that I rarely speak the truth. I am not sure what's inside of him that has caused him to believe that I would ever allow anyone to shoot me. Or cause me any harm for that matter. This statement is simply to inform those who happen upon it of the facts behind the carnage that will be found after I've left the room.
He is starting to shift his weight again. I don't have much time left at all. My window of opportunity is closing and the darkness has returned. I will lower my pen now. His neck is exposed.
The darkness is hungry.
But, none of that matters. I don't have to analyze any of it. I have to write. I have something to say. A last testament, if you will. I sit at the hard wooden desk with my back dripping beads of perspiration. My hair stuck to my shoulders, neck and back, with a plaster made of my own sweat mixed with blood.
The blood is foreign to me. My naked body, shivering in the heat, and long stripped of of its protected clothing, is void of any gashes that would allow blood to seep from it. The dark red body fluid that I wear is of the two dead bodies that call the dirty hotel room floor home. The blood has hardened on my light brown skin and provide a protective shell against the heat of the night. The sweat that slithers along this covering could not even penetrate it.
"Write faster," he tells me; nudging the back of my skull with the barrel of his gun.
"I am." I tell him. My adversary is shaking.
My quick response to his, and his cohorts, planned attack was not what he had expected. All thee men; tall, muscular, and heavy handed as they proved when they grabbed me, figured they could have their way with me. I'm sure they had anticipated some sort of resistance on my part. I think, deep down where secrets are buried and inner voices are heard, they looked forward to it. What they didn't bargain for
what they had no way of knowing
was that inside my petite frame resided a darkness, that when unleashed, reviled Hell's deepest pit.
They never got the chance to rape me. Pinning me down, one man keeping my arms held in under his weight, while the other two busied themselves removing my clothes.
There were tears of course. As I write these words I find them to be useless. They don't convey the horror of the moment. The terror that he is experiencing right now as I feel the gun tremble against my bloody head.
"What the fuck are you writing?" He whispers. Spittle forms around his mouth. His eyes, once blackened by the sheer harm he intended me are now a light brown and bulging from their sockets.
The sight of the gun, held intently in his hand, was such a surprise moments earlier, that I had paused in my retaliation. The pause
that split second of humanity that had shown through the blackness
was enough to cause something within me to be still once more. That stillness was what gave him his edge.
I have to bring back that darkness in me. The evil that lurks down below. I have to capture it all so I can finish what I started.
My failure to answer his question does not cause my enemy to pull the trigger. He is in too much shock to end my life. He stands behind my blood drenched body
with his sweat soaked striped shirt and piss stained brown pants
with a morbid curiosity that I'm betting he's never experienced.
As his weight began to cut the circulation in my arms, the other two monsters were preparing their decent into my world. The darker one, with numerous prison tattoos and long blond hair, pushed my legs open. He laughed, even high fiving the blond, pale skinned man that sat at my rib cage. He wore only his socks and shirt. His small erection told me he was ready to meet me next.
Poor foolish bastards. Men, with their straight spines, large hands, and alpha thoughts, they always think they are stronger than their opposite gender. How wrong these imbeciles are.How deadly wrong.
I felt his heat before he entered me. I know this now. I am also sure of the knowledge that it is this heat
the fire if you will
that diminished the light within me. That brought about my darkness.
"This isn't going to happen." I told him. And before he could laugh and mock my stupidity, I began to eat him.
Quickly.
I targeted the jugular. As my mouth quickly filled up with the bitterness of his life, I reached over with my left hand and tore his partner's jaw completely off.
I can not tell when the man with the gun leaped off of my arms.
Blood. It is an unusual substance. I have found in my past adventures that the taste has often reflected the owner's soul. These men
monsters
were rabid at heart. Their darkness contained demons that seemed to have escaped from the darkest corners of Hell.
The second monster's body began to seize as I ripped open his throat. His blood was rancid. It burned as my saliva mixed with it and carried the fluid to the acidic home of my stomach. I could feel it churn as it made its way through my digestive system. I almost vomited back up.
Almost.
"Stop," the man had screamed. My head, snapping to look in his direction so quickly that my neck bones cracked, held a smile that appeared to frighten him more than the carnage that lay out before his eyes.
"Uh....stop." He whispered.
I stood up slowly, all the while swallowing back the rest of the life I had drained.
"So," I said. "Are you next?"
"Fuck you. You're going to fucking die, you fucking whatever-the-fuck-you-are."
"I have to write first," I told him. "I have to tell my story. When I'm done, then you can put a bullet through my head if you still want to."
He eyeballed me suspiciously as I reached behind me into the desk, that I'm now sitting at, to pull out a pen and stationary. Forever the wanna-be monster, his eyes took in my small breasts. He looked hungrily at my sex, and then snapped back to the reality of the present.
"Hurry up."
I smiled and began to write.
I was normal once. As I sit here, bathed in someone else's blood and angry over the events that brought me to this moment, I have to remember that I was once normal. Of course it wasn't these men that caused the darkness to form initially. No, they just turned off the light. Not, it had happened a long time ago.
One day I walked this world normal. Then one night I broke. Simple. In a moment's time, I fell apart. And I was never the same.
He's telling me to write faster. He is in a hurry to end my life. I do not know the time. There are no windows in this room. How did I find myself in an old roach ridden hotel room with three strangers? Easy. I was searching for pills. Pills that would forever keep me walking in darkness.
I know they planned this. There is no guessing to it. As I write these words, retracing my steps of placing the phone call that lead to the dealer, who gave me the directions to this run down hotel room, I see that they've done this to countless women before. Of course, admittedly, none of that crossed my mind as I returned the brutality. Now, though, I can even hear their past victims screams. They echo off my skin, having been released from the monsters spilled blood that I wear. I hope my words calm them like a lullaby soothes a disgruntled infant.
The man's
my wanna-be monster
curiosity has turned to impatience. He has yet to say it, but I know he will soon inform me that my time is up and he will expect me to make good on my promise. What he has yet to realize
and what I can not figure out
is that I rarely speak the truth. I am not sure what's inside of him that has caused him to believe that I would ever allow anyone to shoot me. Or cause me any harm for that matter. This statement is simply to inform those who happen upon it of the facts behind the carnage that will be found after I've left the room.
He is starting to shift his weight again. I don't have much time left at all. My window of opportunity is closing and the darkness has returned. I will lower my pen now. His neck is exposed.
The darkness is hungry.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
My Dearest Friend: Pain
My Dearest Friend,
I would have thought my writing these phantom letters to you would have ceased after this much time had passed. Yet, here I am, writing to you with an urgency that is just as great as the day you died. I can not help but think of you and the joy you brought to my life and wonder if you received the same type of happiness from me.
I hope you did. I pray that you did.
Afternoon storms have become the norm for this season. I can not help but be grateful for them. They mirror what is happening on the inside of my body. The mornings find my insides calm and without pain. I walk with a heaviness that I can not shake. Yet, as the day wears on, and right as the lightening strikes outside my office window, the electricity is turned on inside me and something catches fire. Whether it's my surgical incision, my torso, or just my arms, something feels like it is engulfed in flames. My body becomes tired, worn down from being awake, and every nerve ending I posses becomes angry. They argue, fight, and scream at one another.
On the outside everything appears normal. On the inside I am in pain.
The worst part of all this is my hands. They are always hurting. Sometimes they throb. Sometimes the lightening shoots through them, making something as simple as holding a fork impossible. And this scares me more than anything else. More than the lesion that occupies my kidney. More than the follow up CT scans that I must keep every six months. My hands are my gateway. They are what keep me sane. They are how I write. If I can not write, then I cease to breathe.
The doctor calls this pain Fibromyalgia and is in the process of trying different pain medicine for me. One medicine helped with the lightening that ricocheted throughout my body, but it colored my days a shade of black that I had never seen before. I could do nothing to escape it. Food lost its taste. There was nothing behind my smile. One night I viewed the shotgun that sits beside my bed, not as a last line of defense, but more of something that would allow me to escape all the blackness.
I went back to the doctor the next day. I welcome the pain over the blackness any day.
I try to look back over the past year to see when the pain started. But, it never really ended from the tumor. I can almost pinpoint the moment my hands started to hurt. When the itching started. Sleep is now a joke. I know if I do not take something, I will not sleep. My mind, forever vigilant against whatever goes bump in the night, will not allow any medicine to put me to sleep for eight hours straight. I am constantly waking. I am constantly on guard.
I am constantly hurting on some level.
In the year since you passed, I have become a loner. A hermit. I eye people suspiciously. I am not worried about what they want from me, or need from me. Rather, it is the time they ask of me. Enough time has been robbed of me in the past, that I am skeptical of anyone else wanting more. I am less than willing to share my time with just anyone.
Instead, I spend most of my alone time in reflection and prayer. 'Reflection' and 'Prayer' are terms that I use interchangeably with writing. I do not talk to the sky for God is not there. He does not live amongst the clouds. Instead, He is here. With me. He whispers to me in a soothing manner when I am upset. He sends me His message of hope and reassurance through those I do trust when I need it. He walks with me because He knows I can not maneuver this life without Him. He gives me patience. He blesses me.
I must leave you now. My hands have begun to ache and the children are ready for my attention.
As Always,
Wes
I would have thought my writing these phantom letters to you would have ceased after this much time had passed. Yet, here I am, writing to you with an urgency that is just as great as the day you died. I can not help but think of you and the joy you brought to my life and wonder if you received the same type of happiness from me.
I hope you did. I pray that you did.
Afternoon storms have become the norm for this season. I can not help but be grateful for them. They mirror what is happening on the inside of my body. The mornings find my insides calm and without pain. I walk with a heaviness that I can not shake. Yet, as the day wears on, and right as the lightening strikes outside my office window, the electricity is turned on inside me and something catches fire. Whether it's my surgical incision, my torso, or just my arms, something feels like it is engulfed in flames. My body becomes tired, worn down from being awake, and every nerve ending I posses becomes angry. They argue, fight, and scream at one another.
On the outside everything appears normal. On the inside I am in pain.
The worst part of all this is my hands. They are always hurting. Sometimes they throb. Sometimes the lightening shoots through them, making something as simple as holding a fork impossible. And this scares me more than anything else. More than the lesion that occupies my kidney. More than the follow up CT scans that I must keep every six months. My hands are my gateway. They are what keep me sane. They are how I write. If I can not write, then I cease to breathe.
The doctor calls this pain Fibromyalgia and is in the process of trying different pain medicine for me. One medicine helped with the lightening that ricocheted throughout my body, but it colored my days a shade of black that I had never seen before. I could do nothing to escape it. Food lost its taste. There was nothing behind my smile. One night I viewed the shotgun that sits beside my bed, not as a last line of defense, but more of something that would allow me to escape all the blackness.
I went back to the doctor the next day. I welcome the pain over the blackness any day.
I try to look back over the past year to see when the pain started. But, it never really ended from the tumor. I can almost pinpoint the moment my hands started to hurt. When the itching started. Sleep is now a joke. I know if I do not take something, I will not sleep. My mind, forever vigilant against whatever goes bump in the night, will not allow any medicine to put me to sleep for eight hours straight. I am constantly waking. I am constantly on guard.
I am constantly hurting on some level.
In the year since you passed, I have become a loner. A hermit. I eye people suspiciously. I am not worried about what they want from me, or need from me. Rather, it is the time they ask of me. Enough time has been robbed of me in the past, that I am skeptical of anyone else wanting more. I am less than willing to share my time with just anyone.
Instead, I spend most of my alone time in reflection and prayer. 'Reflection' and 'Prayer' are terms that I use interchangeably with writing. I do not talk to the sky for God is not there. He does not live amongst the clouds. Instead, He is here. With me. He whispers to me in a soothing manner when I am upset. He sends me His message of hope and reassurance through those I do trust when I need it. He walks with me because He knows I can not maneuver this life without Him. He gives me patience. He blesses me.
I must leave you now. My hands have begun to ache and the children are ready for my attention.
As Always,
Wes
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Love in the Cornfield
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "But, I'm going to hurt you."
I looked into the brown eyes of the man I loved. We were standing at the edge of a cornfield. The cloudless night revealed a full moon that was breath taking. Stars littered the sky. The wind, soft and warm, rustled through the stalks as it played with my hair. It was a perfect Autumn night.
He had brought me here to talk. Talk about us. About the future that seemed ripe with promise. We'd been flirting with the idea of a relationship for over two years. While I'd quickly fallen in love with his dark skin and black hair, he remained on the edge with me. Never really trusting my smile or my good intentions. He never fully believed that I was who I claimed to be.
But, I trusted him. I believed in that wide smile that spoke softly. I understood the curious look that peaked out above his eyes. I held firm in the belief that we were destined to be together. His arms, strong and protective, locked around my waist. It kept me safe, away from the big bad monsters of everyday. His scent, warm and inviting, calmed me as I inhaled him. This man was not just a man to me. He was home. He was a little piece of heaven that God saw fit to put here on earth. Just for me.
I nuzzled into his neck. "What do you mean?"
"I'm going to hurt you," he repeated as he stepped away from me. In the moonlight, he looked like an angel. I could see the worry cross his face. He took two steps back and looked me up and down. I could imagine what he saw.
I am taller than most women. My hair, black and curly, falls into untamed locks around my shoulders. My skin, a light brown, is always cool to the touch. My brown eyes mirror his. Where he is muscular, toned, and athletic, I am slim with a wide frame.
I shook my head. "I don't understand. How are you going to hurt me? Are you going to hit me? What?"
Again, he took another step back. Shaking his head, he apologized softly. "I'm so sorry. I never set out to hurt you."
Confusion clouded my thoughts. In the years that saw my pursuit of him, he had often hurt me unknowingly. His reluctance to accept me as his was enough to send me to bed with tears in my eyes. Countless nights I had cried over this man and begged God in all His mercy to end my suffering and send me someone new to love. Yet, God, in all His infinite wisdom, is mysterious as He is silent.
My prayers were never answered. And my love for him continued to grow.
Shivering in the warm wind, I wrapped my arms across my chest. "Explain yourself," I demanded.
"I'm going to break your heart."
With that simple statement, my heart froze. The air turned still. The corn stalks, once rustling in the wind of the evening, now stood quiet in anticipation of my next move. He waited, looking at me with those lovely brown eyes of his. I tried to breathe, to get the organ that resides in the center of my chest to take up its beating once more. I inhaled deeply. Yet, the air that I took into my lungs was stagnant. Empty of anything that could sustain life. Dizzy, I bent over, putting my hands on my knees.
Breathe. Breathe. 1....2....3....
I wanted to ask why. Why would he do this to someone who loved him? How? How could this be? Words swam through my mind, barely touching the transmitters that would bring the message to my lips. I opened my mouth, ready to spill forth my questions.
Instead I vomited.
"Are you ok?" He asked as he approached me.
"Stay back," I whispered. I held out my hand to keep him at bay. "Don't you dare come near me."
After the moment passed, I stood erect. Unable to make eye contact, he looked away.
Bastard.
"Why?" I asked him.
He began to speak about prior obligations. He spoke of work and how he had no time for anything other than the tasks he had previously sat before him. But, I knew these were all lies. Obligations are nothing more than a mask that he wore to hide the fear that he carried with him everyday. Fear of me. Of us. Fear of getting close. Of loving me. Of the possibilities. Of what could be. But, I doubted he was scared of getting hurt. He left that cliche behind when he past his thirties and greeted his forties as a new man. No, it was something else. He was fearful of things working out. He was scared of being happy.
As the minutes wore on, his voice was replaced with a wooshing sound that echoed throughout my head. Waves upon waves of despair crashed through my vision. I could see nothing but anger. Red lights flashed about. As I stared at him, the corn that provided the backdrop to this horrible sight erupted into an ocean of fire.
Oblivious to what I could see, he continued on. "I am so sorry. You are so sweet. I never intended to hurt you."
Intent. Intent is nothing more than energy that propels an action into existence. Without the intent, the action can still occur, but at a much slower pace. Pain, when inflicted with the speed and force of a hurricane, can render the recipient unconscious. However, when pain is delivered slowly.....thoughtfully....it can make your knees buckle. Under the slow delivered pain, a person can be tortured to the point that they no longer recognize themselves or their surroundings. Their insides will contort, twist with each hurtful word, until the only thing left for the victim to do is to summon up their last little bit of strength and strike back.
It is much better for both parties involved if the hurt is administered swiftly. Like lightening.
With one sentence, one utterance of his intentions, he had managed to strip the soul away from my body. All that stood was a breathing carcass that wanted nothing more than to tear him limb from limb. The whooshing sound that I heard gave way to the sound of my heart beating. Echoing in my ears. Violently, my chest shook with each brutal thump. I clutched at the center of my core, hoping that my hand could calm what rose from underneath. I tried, in vain, to breathe through it all.
But, I couldn't. All I could do was surrender to the rising of the red current that swept over me. Knocking me off my feet, the tide threw me to the ground. On my knees, I began to eject black vile onto the dirt.
"What the hell?" He whispered.
I desperately tried to shake the images and sensations from my mind's eye. I begged for God to take it all. I was going insane at that very moment, crouched down at that particular spot. But, I couldn't let it go. The pain and anger consumed me. It filled me with fire and as I began to feed off of it. I realized that it pleasured me more than it hurt.
On my knees, surrounded on three sides by corn, with my back to the car and the old country road, I threw my head back in pure, unadulterated bliss. It felt as if there were thousands of tiny knives penetrating me from every angle. I began to rock back and forth with each puncture. I inhaled deeply, feeling the pain turn to a sweet sensation that started at my finger tips and swept through me at a speed that took my breath away.
The remains of the black sludge that I'd thrown up just minutes before dripped from my mouth. I traced my tongue over my lips, tasting the acidic vile. Feeling it dance around my taste buds, I grinned sweetly at him as I swallowed it back.
"Oh God," he said.
"God is gone," I said matter-of-factly. "He left you to me."
Run....
I watched with satisfaction as the man I loved tore into the cornfield behind him. I did not give chase, rather I waited until I heard his screams. I knew they were coming. I knew he wouldn't get far.
Fear. Such a senseless emotion when it is conjured up out of thin air. It wrecks havoc on an otherwise peaceful existence. More times than not, fear is an imaginary creature. The boogey man that lives under the bed that disappears once the light is turned on. I would show him what real fear is.
I am the monster that lives in the light.
I followed his screams to the center of the field. The corn stalks parted, allowing entry into its maze. The air was thick with malice and regret. Blood splattered across the corn stalks, painting them with polka dots of crimson red. I traced my finger across the stalks and licked the sweet blood from my tips. Up ahead, I heard the moaning of a wounded animal. It withered in pain, begging for forgiveness and mercy.
As I made my way to the sounds, leaves reached out to me. They slid down my back side, caressing me along the way. The stalks twisted around my neck and torso, assuring me that they would be on my side. That they would do my bidding.
I found the animal in the middle of the field. The corn stalks had laid down in a circular pattern, allowing for a clearing for me to do my work in. He was spread eagle, a stalk having each limb and pulling it tightly. Blood was everywhere, splattered against the corn and all over the ground.
How is this thing still alive?
"Please," he whimpered. "Please. I'm so sorry. Don't kill me."
"I don't understand why you did this," I said. "Why hurt me?"
"Trust me," he croaked. "Had I known you were capable of all this, I would've never pissed you off."
The stalks tightened their pull and I vomited once more as he screamed. The black vile shook my body as it rose up out of my throat. I watched, in disbelief, as the slithery vile made its way towards him. Even in the still night, he could see the thick liquid approach him.
He began to scream.
"What the hell? What the hell? Oh God. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please."
Amazed at what my body had produced, I watched as slithered up his leg. It disappeared under his pants leg.
He stopped screaming for a moment as he tried to see what was taking place.
"What the hell? Get it. Don't let it go any farther. Stop it. You gotta stop it."
I was powerless over the whole scene. I could do nothing, so I simply sat down on the corn stalks and watched in amusement.
"Do you what that is?" I asked him.
"I don't give a fuck," he cried. "Get this shit off of me."
Ignoring his response, I continued. "It's anger. It's fear. It's what happens when you play with someone's heart. When you proceed with no intention of loving someone. That is hurt. That is terror. And it's going to hurt you. Worse. It's going to violate you."
The look on his face was pure horror. The black slime made its way up inside him. His screams were animistic. He screamed. Cried out in agony and terror. His body began to contort and seize as he tried in vain to escape what was inside him. Blood spewed from his mouth as his insides were torn to shreds.
After what seemed like eternity, but was very well only a few moments, the black sludge made its way out of his mouth and back towards me. I sat calmly, waiting for it to return home.
The corn stalks retreated back to their original positions as they let him go. There was no concern over his running away. His face, frozen in horror and pain, was empty of any life.
The liquid pooled itself beside me, giving off a burning heat. I did not welcome it back. I wished to leave it where it was. Understanding my silent command, it disappeared into the soft earth.
Eventually, I calmed down. My anger, once pulsating and alive, seemed to retreat with the corn. I made my way back to the car to head home.
Tomorrow I would try to love another. But tonight...well tonight...I was done.
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